Three Wizards on Baker Street
by Spark Writer
Summary: A hasty apparation escapade lands Harry, Hermione and Ron just blocks from Sherlock and John's abode. And there's a fire in 221B. And a slew of angry trolls. Cheers.
1. Chapter 1

The first thing Harry heard as he attempted to quell his dizziness was Ron growling, "Where the hell are we?"

"I don't know," Hermione said helplessly from Harry's left. "London, I think."

Relieved as the nauseating effects of hasty apparation dissipated, Harry felt for his wand and glanced at Hermione, puzzled. "Why are we here, Hermione? We needed a quick escape, yeah, but not one so…far away."

Hermione stood—she had previously been leaning against a sturdy blue police box—and lifted her wand. "_Lumos_," she whispered, illuminating a quiet street and a few overflowing rubbish bins.

Harry tucked his wand in his jeans pocket, feeling mixed regret and amusement. The trio had just escaped a rather frightening predicament that involved four angry trolls and a bottle of firewhisky (don't ask), thanks to Hermione's ever potent skills of apparation. Unfortunately, she all too often apparated them to the first place she thought of, and really, Harry couldn't imagine why this little street had popped into her head. Or why she'd ever had a cause to be there. Or how she could possibly have remembered such an unmemorable place.

_This_ was intended to be a much-needed summer holiday for the three of them, for they had just fought and won the premiere battle in wizarding history, they were eighteen, and they were truly exhausted, body and mind. However, the words "summer holiday" had not evoked an image in Harry's mind of apparating from an irate bunch of river trolls, nor wasting a perfectly good bottle of Ogden's Old.

Not at all.

"We can go back," Hermione offered, still holding her wand aloft.

Ron pulled a face. "Hermione, with all due respect, there's nothing I'd rather do less than have a second go with those goddamned trolls. My nostrils are burning!"

"That aside," interrupted Harry, "we can't exactly show up back at the Burrow, either. No one's expecting us."

"Well, I'm not going to stay here." Ron put a hand on Hermione's arm. "Do you have any other ideas?"

Hermione glanced about, smiling a little at the glowing silhouette of Big Ben and the London Eye. "Merlin, I forgot how much I love it here," she murmured. "Can we stay? Just a bit?"

Harry smirked as Ron's iron-will mysteriously deserted him. "Oh, fine. Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "It's not a bad idea."

Hermione beamed, and hastened to shove her wand out of sight as a cab went past.

It was strange, being immersed so fully in the Muggle world. Harry saw cabs where brooms would do, light-timered street lamps replacing handy deluminators, police horses in place of threstrals. It made him feel a funny twist in his stomach, not fitting in where nearly everyone in the world did.

"Perhaps we should go somewhere better lit," remarked Hermione, gazing at the street lamps that glittered at one end of the street.

Ron took a step forward and howled as his wand poked him in a very unfortunate place.

"You're going need to book an appointment at St. Mungo's soon, Ron," Harry chuckled, smirking. Hermione shot them a scorching look, and they hurriedly shut up and followed her.

They emerged onto a street that was decidedly Muggley. There were rows of grey stone apartments, two telephone booths; a bus stop sheltering a few menacing looking individuals, and a dodgy little sandwich shop called "Speedy's." Harry wondered if this was the alacrity with which customers raced to the loo after ingesting a "Speedy's" sandwich. He certainly hoped not. He, Ron and Hermione wondered over to the sandwich shop and stood on the sidewalk, unsure.

"This is…" Harry trailed away, unable to formulate a proper description. Boring? Mundane? Lackluster?

"…nothing to write home about," Ron concluded, flashing Hermione an apologetic look. "You wouldn't happen to have your cloak on you, would you, Harry?"

"Er, sorry, no—it's in my bag back in France."

"No, it isn't," said Hermione, with a mischievous smile. "I have it. After defeating Voldemort, one would think you'd be more prepared, Harry."

"Brilliant!" crowed Ron and Harry grinned. "God, that's fantastic, Hermione! Now all we have to do is duck in an alley, get under the cloak—and hope there aren't any nargles in it." He laughed.

"Nargles," hissed Hermione, "are figments of Luna Lovegood's imagination. I've done extensive research, and they do _not_ exist!"

"Then explain what was infesting that mistletoe," Ron interjected.

"What mistletoe?" asked Harry, frowning.

Ron reddened. "Er, back in sixth year when me and—well. We were, erm, sort of—"

"Snogging," said Hermione. "When he and Lavender were snogging."

"Ah," Harry said succinctly. "What, were you kissing under nargle infested mistletoe? That's unbearably romantic."

"I think so," said Ron. "But aren't nargles invisible? God, I'm going mad."

"Was it lack of oxygen, do you think?" offered Harry, low enough for only Ron's ears.

"No!"

Hermione sighed. Harry noticed that she had gone a rather bright shade of pink, and suddenly he knew she was responsible for the gag. Well played, Hermione. He decided it was best not to ask what _had been_ infesting the mistletoe; because there was a great chance the answer would be repulsive and generally nasty.

Any further thoughts ended abruptly; there came a frightening bang from within the building beside them. Hermione gasped and Harry looked up, nerves jangling. In the windows several floors above Speedy's café, he saw a string of blue smoke explosions and a moment after that, a man shouted, "Oh my god, Sherlock, you've set the flat on fire!"

"Oh!" cried Hermione and Ron swore.

Without pausing for consent of any sort, Harry sprang into action and jabbed his wand furtively at the door marked 221B, muttering, "_Alohamora_." The lock released in acquiescence, and Harry looked over his shoulder at Ron and Hermione as he turned the nob.

"Harry, what are you doing?"

"There's a _fire_, Hermione. We have to help."

"That's assuming they're Muggles," Hermione retorted snappishly.

"Well," said Harry, stepping into the narrow corridor beyond the door, "if they _were_ Muggles, they'd have put the fire out already."

"Fair point," said Ron. "Alright, Hermione?"

Without answering, she followed Harry into the hall and they ascended the stairs with speed, growing ever closer to a truly deafening racket of irate yelling, furniture scraping across floors, and splashing water.

They climbed the last few stairs and tumbled over the threshold of a chaotic mess of a sitting room.

"Mum would have a fit," Ron murmured, and Harry knew exactly what he meant.

"Sherlock—oh god, Sherlock—the kitchen table's on fire! Where the hell is the extinguisher?"

Harry watched as a sandy haired man just slightly shorter than himself rushed into the sitting room, looking frantically around. He saw Harry, Ron and Hermione staring at him and sighed, resigned.

"I'm sorry, but if you need Sherlock to solve a crime for you, you'll have to wait until we put this bloody inferno out." He spotted the red extinguisher beside a pile of criminology books.

"No!" said Harry. "We're going to help you, just—stand well back."

He approached the kitchen, from which copious amounts of smoke were streaming, directed his wand and bawled, "_Aguamenti!_"

A satisfying jet of water erupted from the tip of his wand and into the flames licking the table, chairs, and wall. In seconds, the fire was no more. However, amidst all the smoke had apparently been a second man, a pale man who was now properly soaked from scalp to toes.

Oh. Oh _dear._

_A/N: This is my first crossover, so please let me know what you think. I may/may not continue, given my schedule, but I hope I am improving. :D_

_Riding crops and wands,_

_-Spark Writer-_

_XO_


	2. Chapter 2

Harry tucked his wand away, pulse chattering anxiously. This was what all witches and wizards dreaded vigorously: circumstances under which they had no choice but to perform magic in the presence of Muggles. Though he wanted very much to either flee the scene or obliviate both men's memories, Harry remained calm, affecting what he hoped was a sympathetic, non-threatening expression.

"Erm," he said eloquently. "Fire's out."

The pale, tall man gazed at Harry with a frightening onslaught of reactions. Suspicion, wonderment, keenness, skepticism, and acute curiosity flashed across his angular features. He was assessing. Calculating. Evaluating. Comprehending.

He placed his fingertips together in a gesture that reminded Harry painfully of Dumbledore. And then he spoke. "You've just put these flames out with nothing but a wooden stick. I'll take the case."

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione, frowning. "What case?"

"Murder! Crime! I'm the world's only consulting detective; I assume your arrival is related to one or more of these occurrences."

"Actually," said Harry, "we heard someone yelling about setting the flat on fire, and thought we could help." He thought it best not to mention the smoky cobalt explosions.

"We were managing perfectly well on our own," snapped the man, blinking water from his eyes.

"No, we weren't," countered the shorter of the two men. He'd come striding in from the sitting room, visibly grateful. "Thank you," he said to Harry, smiling. "This flat would have burnt to a crisp had you not come along and saved our collective arse."

Harry smiled wanly and took the man's outstretched hand.

"I'm John Watson," he explained, "and this is my flatmate and colleague, Sherlock Holmes."

"Harry Potter," said Harry, finding it a great relief that his name elicited no further reaction than if it had been Alec Thompson. "And these are my friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Sorry about the wet," he apologized to Sherlock Holmes, thinking of casting a drying charm and hastily dismissing the idea.

Sherlock ignored Harry's expression of regret, and fixed him with a steely gaze. "Are you pagan? Wiccan? Do you identify with customs, traditions or beliefs from either?"

Ron snorted; Hermione silenced him with a well-placed jab of the elbow.

"No," said Harry. "Er, not exactly…"

"It's nothing to do with religion, and I think it's rather narrow of you to assume that," snapped Hermione.

"Do you feel you may be at all possessed? Or possibly affected by narcotics, chemical imbalance, or the extra-terrestrial?" Sherlock gave them an appraising stare.

"Oh, for god's sake, Sherlock!" John flashed the consulting detective a stern look. "What's relevant is that they saved our home from ruin!"

"I'm merely assessing the possible explanations, John."

"Well, stop being an idiot."

"Then do explain," murmured Sherlock, eyeing Harry, "how you manipulated what looks to be a wand to essentially spew water at an intended target?"

"Because I'm a—"

_Crack! _

Kreacher appeared in the center of the living room, ears waggling wildly. His appearance elicited a frightened yelp from John, and a "_Fascinating_!" from Sherlock.

"What the bloody hell is he doing here?" asked Ron, looking around at the decrepit house elf with alarm.

"Kreacher, what is it?" asked Harry.

"There's a situation, sir."

"A situation?"

"The Ministry of Magic, sir. They're trying to discover your whereabouts."

"Why? What's the matter?"

"Oh _no_…" said Hermione, suddenly horrified.

"What?"

"I wonder if…" She dropped to her knees and spoke to Kreacher. "Did they say anything about river trolls, Kreacher?"

Kreacher nodded grimly, ears flapping.

"Blimey," moaned Ron. "D'you think they drank the firewhisky?"

"Probably," Harry said bleakly, dread settling in his stomach. "We really should have thought this through."

Hermione twisted her fingers together in a fit of anxiety. "The effects of firewhisky on non-humans are currently unknown, so this situation may be worse than anyone imagined. And it's our fault!"

"I told you we shouldn't buy it," Ron muttered solemnly to Harry.

"Yet I seem to remember you eagerly forking out the galleons."

"Oh, bugger off."

"Excuse me," said John, "but could someone please tell me what just landed in the middle of our flat?"

In the meantime, Sherlock was encircling Kreacher the way a vulture would fresh meat; his nostrils flared in feverish interest. Kreacher responded with a foul look and a rude hand gesture—then seized a book (_The Secret Life of Bacteria_) and slapped himself about.

"This is Kreacher," Harry explained to John. "He's a house elf."

"Ah," said John, as though that had properly cleared the confusion (it hadn't).

"Remarkable," rumbled Sherlock, peering into one of Kreacher's great hairy ears with a magnifying glass.

"He apparated," Hermione added to John. "Meaning that he can instantly appear at a desired location."

"Ingenious," murmured Sherlock. "John, fetch me my lighter fluid."

"No, Sherlock, absolutely not. No experiments, not _now_ when there's a _thing_ in our flat _that can talk_!"

"Harry Potter, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger must go to the Ministry of Magic," said Kreacher, fixing them with his bloodshot eyes. "They must face their consequences."

He turned his head slowly towards Sherlock and John. "Have the sirs got their wands with them?"

"No, you don't—"

Kreacher nodded and interrupted John by taking John's hand in his own, while reaching for Sherlock's. This was the last Harry saw of them before Kreacher twisted and the threesome disappeared with a pop.

_A/N: xD If you've Favorited this story, do me a favor and review it. Please? I'm new to crossovers. :)_

_Thank you, _

_Spark Writer_

_...One of my early drafts:_

Sherlock: "You manipulated what looks to be a wand to essentially spew water at an intended target!"

Harry: "Yes, and would you like me to do it again?" :)


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: This took FOREVER to write and the story's still not done...so hang in there with me! :D Reviews are well-loved._

"Merlin's beard!" cried Ron, looking absolutely gobsmacked.

"We can't just have Muggles wandering around the Ministry," cried Hermione. "Come on, you two—we've got to find them and sort everything out."

She took hold of Ron's forearm and Harry's shoulder, and the three twisted into the familiar pressing darkness of apparation. Only when Harry was certain his lungs would crumple and his nose turn inside out, did they arrive on the pavement outside the Ministry. Unfortunately, they apparated onto the same bit of street as an exceedingly large woman in raspberry coloured robes. Having been smacked roughly in the rear, Ron stumbled forward, catching himself on a lamp pole.

"I'm so sorry," gasped Hermione.

The hefty woman peered at Hermione, and then fixed Harry with a harsh stare, pursing her lips unhappily. "Harry Potter," she intoned at last. "The man behind the scene on the Seine."

Ron sniggered.

"There is nothing remotely humorous about the current situation, Mr. Weasley," she retorted, glancing at his ginger hair. "Calanthia Locum, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. I believe you are responsible for the drunken outbreak of four Parisian river trolls?"

Harry grimly shook her proffered hand.

"It wasn't just Harry," Ron interjected. "We were there, too."

"Then you shall also be held responsible." Calanthia folded her pudgy arms across her chest, teased brown curls drooping in the stifling mugginess. "The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is already endeavoring to calm the trolls, though they've had very little luck so far. We may have to obliviate the memories of hundreds of Muggles, and reverse acres of material damage."

Hermione covered her mouth with an open palm, aghast.

"Let's go to my office headquarters, shall we?" Calanthia gestured to a heavily graffitied telephone box to their right. "In, now."

Hermione shot Harry a desperate look.

"We'll find them," he mumbled.

"But Harry—"

"_Later_."

They filed inside, shifting around so no one's elbows were in anyone's eye, and Calanthia pulled the receiver down from the ceiling—with far more confidence than had Mr. Weasley, noted Harry. She dialed 6-2-4-4-2, barked her name into the receiver, and when the receptionist asked her to state her business, she said rather grandly, "Restoring order to the Wizarding World!"

Hermione rolled her eyes.

Calanthia handed out their silver badges and pinned hers to her raspberry-robed bosom. Then, with a creak and a grind, the telephone box began its slow decent into the ground. They were silent as the sidewalk swallowed them; Ron polished his wand feverishly on the sleeve of his jumper, while Hermione studied her shoes. Harry avoided looking at Calanthia for fear she should launch into another unpleasant lecture about demolition, destruction, and devastation.

"...My luck," muttered Ron as though they were already mid-conversation, "I'll run into Dad and Percy. Blimey, I'll never make out of there alive."

"There's nothing we can do but tell the truth," Hermione replied, straightening her shoulders with resolution. "It was an honest mistake, something that could happen to anyone."

"Thing is, though, it's _always_ us."

The dark irony of Ron's words was not lost on Harry. He kept envisioning a domestic catastrophe in the Ministry, involving the two firebombing Muggles, and his own house-elf. Lovely.

The telephone box ground to a halt in the Ministry's sweeping atrium, and Calanthia stood aside to let them pass. Hermione flashed Harry another significant look as she brushed by him—"I know, Hermione!"—and Ron jabbed him sharply in the ribs.

"What?"

"There."

Harry glanced in the direction of Ron's outstretched arm and saw Kreacher's stooped silhouette amongst a throng of angry wizards. If anyone had taken notice of the elf they didn't seem to mind him; they were far too busy waving their fists and spewing shocking amounts of verbal abuse at one another. This was all very well, but Harry did not like the suspicious absence of Sherlock and John.

"Splendid," said Calanthia grimly. She was staring haughtily at the arguing wizards. "Another outbreak among colleagues. Just what the Ministry needs."

"Does this happen quite a lot?" Hermione asked hastily, having noticed Kreacher as well. "Are there many disagreements between departments?"

"A fair amount," Calanthia sighed. "It seemss that the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is demanding another pay raise."

"Well, you can't blame them, I suppose," countered Hermione.

"Yes, my dear, but you're not taking into account the fact that their department already receives greater pay than the rest of us."

"Oh. I see."

"Listen," Harry mumbled, edging closer to Ron. "D'you think you could fetch Kreacher if Hermione and I can distract Calanthia a few minutes more?"

"I'll try," Ron whispered, "but what if I cause a huge commotion by running for it?"

"You're not running for it, you're simply telling Kreacher to go back to Grimmauld Place."

"Can't you, though?"

"It'll be a lot more conspicuous if I wander off."

"Oh, fine." Ron waited until Harry had jumped into the conversation with a "Are we discussing Ministry politics? Excellent!" before swinging round and disappearing into the crush of witches and wizards.

Harry did the best he could to keep one eye on Calanthia and one fixed on Ron, but this proved very difficult to accomplish without looking like an absolute nutter. Fortunately, Hermione had no shortage of questions for the Ministry official and Harry was able to mark Ron's progress while they conversed.

One moment, Ron was approaching Kreacher as planned. Next moment, both wizard and elf had vanished completely.

Harry trod on Hermione's foot.

"Ouch!" she hissed, glaring at him. "What are you—"

"They're gone," he muttered.

"What are you on about?" asked Calanthia, narrowing her eyes to a wary squint. "Where's Mr. Weasley?"

"Precisely what we were thinking," said Harry. "I'm sorry, but we really can't stay—urgent business elsewhere—" And he grabbed Hermione's hand and tugged her into the disorienting mass of Ministry employees.

"Harry!" gasped Hermione. "We could be sent to Azkaban for this!"

"You always say that."

They tore through the crowd, tripping on the hems of too-long wizard robes, knocking witches' hats askew, and generally leaving a trail of indignant individuals.

"What happened?" panted Hermione. "Where's Ron?"

"Dunno—he was fetching Kreacher and they both just vanished."

"Did they disapparate?"

"Couldn't have done."

"Kreacher brought John and Sherlock here, didn't he?"

"Yes, but I think we both know Ron wouldn't agree to side-along apparation. They must have gone off somewhere." Harry bumped into a tall wizard in scarlet robes, knocking several rolls of parchment from the man's arms.

"Watch where you're going, you drunken oaf!" The wizard scowled at Harry, his gaze alighting on Harry's scar. "Wait a moment, you're—"

"Come _on_!" cried Hermione, tugging Harry away.

They maneuvered their way to the golden-grilled elevators and Hermione yanked Harry inside one empty of people. The grille slid shut with a metallic clang and the lift began to rise.

"Oh, I hope Sherlock and John aren't wandering around in the Department of Mysteries!" Hermione chewed her lip in a lather of anxiety. "That would be a horrible representation of our government!"

"Yes, but—"

The cool female voice interrupted him: "_Level 9: Department of Mysteries_."

The grilles slid open and Harry stared down the windowless corridor at the plain black door, temporarily distracted by harsh memories of the place. Tugging his focus back to the task at hand, he looked around at Hermione. "There _is_ a chance the Muggles are in there, you know."

"Yes," said Hermione, "but I really hope not. For their sake."

"And ours," said Harry, grimly stepping out of the lift. And then he paused, thinking he'd heard voices.

He had.

"…This is a revelation, John! An alternate universe of epic proportions, a paragon of intricacies. We've delved into a world beyond comprehension—average comprehension, at least."

"Oh god, here we go…"

Harry grinned at Hermione, triumphant. "They're probably on their way up the stairs to the courtrooms!" he breathed, gesturing to the left where a door led to the small flight of steps he had taken with Mr. Weasley in fifth year.

"Why would they do that?"

"Well they haven't got a clue where they are, have they?"

Looking as though a rather horrid headache was coming on, Hermione hastened to the door and peered around it. "Stop!" she cried.

Harry joined her and saw the two Muggles staring down at them from atop the stairs. "I'm sorry," he said plaintively. "I dunno why Kreacher thought it appropriate to apparate you here; you probably think we're all barking."

"We've been in stranger situations—if you can believe it," said John very politely. He glanced at Sherlock. "Remember you swallowing that gemstone?"

Harry tried valiantly not to imagine this scenario.

"Er, we'll explain," said Hermione, because it was obvious at this point—standing with Muggles in the heart of the Ministry of Magic—that there was nothing else for it but to disclose the truth. "We'll explain," she repeated, "but I'm afraid we really can't at the moment. We're sort of—"

"Wanted by the law," Harry sighed.

"Have you committed a crime?" Sherlock asked shrewdly. "You're avoiding eye contact and your pupils seem to be—"

"Sherlock!" barked John.

"No, of course we haven't!" Hermione was aghast. "The whole thing was a complete accident."

"Fiasco," echoed Harry. "We really haven't got much time and we're missing Ron and Kreacher as it is, so—"

The cool, female voice from above interrupted him again: "_Mr. Harry Potter is requested in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes headquarters at once. Mr. Harry Potter is requested in the Department of Magical Accidents and—"_

"You see? I was correct in my assumptions, John." Sherlock flashed his flatmate an arch look.

"You can't ignore the warning, Harry," muttered Hermione, as the message repeated itself in a dizzying loop. "You risk suffering an appalling amount of punishments."

A distant alarm wailed somewhere below them.

"Great," said Harry sarcastically. "Excellent holiday; really relaxing."

"Listen, I've thought through all the possible means of returning John and Sherlock to their home, but I don't think any of them will work. They're not connected to the Floo Network, they can't apparate—"

"And the Ministry's security has probably sealed off all the exits anyway. Right," said Harry. He wondered feverishly what he had done in a past life to deserve this.

"Our best mode of operation would be to act as though they're our wizard acquaintances visiting the Ministry." Hermione indicated Sherlock and John with a dip of her chin. "What, have you got anything better?"

"Of course not," said Harry. He turned toward the two men on the staircase and decided that what he was about to say was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

"How do you feel about wizards?"


	4. Chapter 4

"You're wizards."

"Yes," said Harry, hurrying down the stone steps. "Yes, and you're currently in the Ministry of Magic. Cheers."

Sherlock eyes glinted. "You have a ministry; this is brilliant. Could I arrange to return to conduct a few experimental studies?"

"No," said Hermione snappishly, whisking them all into the lift. "You're a person without magical abilities, otherwise known as a Muggle, and Muggles aren't supposed to be wandering around the Ministry. We're shattering every rule in the book!"

John stepped into the elevator beside Harry, his lips pressed into a thin line. "So what happens if your, er, Ministry of Magic officials find Sherlock and I?"

"They'll likely have an apoplectic fit," explained Hermione, as the elevator shot downwards, "and then they'll destroy your memories."

"For good?" John looked horrified.

"Yes, there's really no way to recover memory once it's been Obliviated."

"Shit." John glanced up at Sherlock, then at Harry. "What can we do?"

"Er, Hermione and I were just saying that all the possible modes of escape have been blocked by Ministry security, and you're seeing as you're not connected by Floo—"

"Wizard transportation—" explained Hermione.

"—you're going to have to pretend to be wizards." Harry looked to Hermione for support and she nodded.

"I'm really, really sorry," she said, "but I think Harry's right. We'll help you; give you fake names and everything, and you won't have to do the talking, we will."

"I've had plenty of experience with disguises and faux identities, so this should be no hardship," said Sherlock. "John, you're the one who requires a bit more assistance in this area, so—"

"Sherlock, please—_be quiet_! We're in hell of a mess and it's all thanks to you and your rubbish experiment with scalding olive oil and old cab tires!"

"I did warn you!"

"Actually," said Harry, "It's more Kreacher's fault."

"Is he the—what did you call him…house elf?" John frowned at Harry.

"Yeah, he can be loads of trouble. Little git."

"Harry!" admonished Hermione.

The lift jerked to a stop; the ominous wailing had grown significantly louder.

"Where are we?"

"_Level 2: Department of Magical Law Enforcement," _said the bodiless female voice.

Sherlock glanced around sharply, nostrils flared.

"Why did it take us here?" asked Hermione in a rather panicky voice. "We need to find—oh!" She broke off, staring at something over Harry's shoulder. He turned around and saw Ron sprinting toward them.

"Harry, Hermione—Dad!" he gasped, clutching a stitch in his side.

"Wha—" Harry cut himself off, having spotted Mr. Weasley running at them not far behind Ron.

"Ron told me you were in a bit of a bind," wheezed Mr. Weasley.

Harry hurried out of the lift, feeling mingled guilt and relief. "Yes, did he tell you about—" He indicated Sherlock and John with his thumb.

"Yes, yes, terribly exciting, isn't it?" Mr. Weasley grinned apologetically at the two men and extended a hand. "I'm Arthur Weasley, Head of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. Quite a mouthful, eh?" He beamed even more brightly. "And you are?"

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock, "and my colleague, Dr. John Watson."

Mr. Weasley gasped. "Good lord!" He peered at Sherlock. "Are you by chance related to Mr. Mycroft Holmes?"

"He's my elder brother," Sherlock said dryly. "Have you met?"

"No, but—Merlin, this is fantastic—my son Percy is the Junior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, and he visited your Muggle government and _met your brother!_ I remember Percy raving about his strategizing and organizational skills!"

"Wait," said John, "Mycroft knows about all this? The wizards and magic and wands?"

"Apparently," mused Sherlock. "Though I think I'll be having a word with him, seeing as he never bothered to tell me."

"Many Muggles who hold high positions in their government are well aware of the Wizarding World," explained Mr. Weasley. "But the whole thing _is_ rather top secret, so—"

"Mr. Weasley," interrupted Hermione, "We really need you to help us act as though Sherlock and John are wizards. The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes is already having a conniption fit over our run-in with the trolls; they can't know about this as well!"

"Yes, of course." Mr. Weasley clapped his hands together. "Right—let's not call you Sherlock and John—how about Althorp and Ralph?"

John smirked and Sherlock pulled a face. "Althorp sounds like a person sneezing with food in their mouth! God."

"Althorp it is," said John, grinning at Mr. Weasley.

"We're not going to risk pretending that you work in the Ministry," said Mr. Weasley. "You're better off saying that you're guests, which you are."

"Just say that you work in Diagon Alley," added Ron. "It'll make sense to everyone else."

"Yes, that works. Now…" Mr. Weasley massaged his temples. "Ah! You'll need a pair of robes each, and I believe I've got a few stashed somewhere in my office."

"Why?" asked Ron, confused.

"Marge Fanshaw dropped off a few pairs last week. Extras from the Gladrag's Wizardwear clearance sale, you know."

Ron went beet red.

"Don't look like that," said Mr. Weasley sternly. "They're in perfectly good condition and—damn!"

He broke off, looking around as a particularly loud chorus of "_Mr. Harry Potter is requested in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes headquarters at once_," split the air.

"This way," he barked, and they hurried after him.

"Ron," muttered Harry, "Did you send Kreacher back alright?"

"Yeah—and then I thought it might be a good idea to get Dad after all. With his soft spot for Muggles, and everything."

"Yeah," Harry said fervently. "We may actually have a chance."

They made a sharp right and sped down a blessedly empty corridor. "In here!" cried Mr. Weasley and they hurtled into his office. Harry noted that it was marginally larger than his former one.

In a frenzy of activity, Mr. Weasley tossed a pair of midnight blue robes to Sherlock and a flamboyantly ruffled mauve pair to John—this time it was Sherlock's turn to smirk.

Hermione slammed the door shut as a cluster of young wizards dashed past.

"They're members of the Official Gobstones Club," explained Mr. Weasley. "Mischievous lot."

Meanwhile, John had struggled into his robes, smoothing them down with an _IknowIlookridiculousdonotmes swithme _expression.

Dually, Sherlock's robes were definitely the wrong size. They fit him so tightly that Harry wondered whether the detective would need to be surgically removed from the offending garment. John kept sneaking looks at Sherlock and going pink in the face.

Ron grimaced as the wailing intensified to a horrible screech; Mr. Weasley fished several copies of _The Prophet_ out of his desk drawer and handed them out. "To muffle the sound," he said cheerfully, scrunching a full colour advertisement for Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans into two balls and popping them into his ears. Harry did the same, feeling a horrid sense of dread. The Ministry officials were very close to discovering them; he had minutes before Calanthia Locum (or someone more sinister) came bursting in, discovering fugitives and two Muggles-pretending-to-be-wizards in one fell swoop.

"Chocolate frog?" asked Mr. Weasley.

"No thanks," said Harry.

"Do they hop?" asked Sherlock, vibrating interest.

Harry met Ron's eyes over John's head and swallowed a laugh. They had tossed a Galleon between this and hell, and lost.

* * *

_A/N: What do you think? XD More to come!_

_-Spark Writer-_


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